


and you do turn away

by glukupikron



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Intercrural Sex, Irresponsible Alcohol Use, M/M, One Night Stand, Shoddy Attempts at Footsie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:54:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27363838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glukupikron/pseuds/glukupikron
Summary: Romantic would be an "at worst" scenario.orCharles makes an impulsive decision and Magnus makes it personal.
Relationships: Magnus Hammersmith/Charles Foster Offdensen
Comments: 10
Kudos: 20





	and you do turn away

**Author's Note:**

> content warnings: alcohol use, irresponsible decisions as a result of said use, brief implied homophobia, lonely men thinking sex will solve all their problems (it won't).
> 
> this is the first of a three-part (or five? not sure yet) series of charles/magnus fics from a brainworm that burrowed into my skull six weeks ago and wouldn't leave me alone. i promise after this one i have a much sillier one planned, but the potential in this ship for drama and tension is irresistible. 
> 
> thank you to M for their eternal love and support and for being the first eyes on this, and to [PaxVobis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaxVobis) and [coldcobalt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldcobalt) for all of your incredible feedback. and thank you to everyone in gay metal hell for all your kind words and encouragement. i appreciate you all more than i can express with mere words. 💕

Charles summons Magnus to his office two weeks and four days after _it_ happens. He’s hoping Magnus will have forgotten, or dismissed it entirely, but when Magnus arrives, Charles finds he’s having no such luck.

“You wanted to see me, chief?” Magnus asks, leering wolfishly at him, and Charles recalls a nickname he’d heard one of Magnus’ friends yell across the bar at him: Magnus “Mad Dog” Hammersmith.

Charles doesn’t care for the insinuation in Magnus’ tone.

“You signed an exclusive contract with Crystal Mountain Records,” Charles says flatly, balancing his snifter of whiskey in one hand. His office is dimly lit by the setting sun and a single art deco lamp, and Magnus watches him steadily from across the room. Unlike the rest of the band, who wilt under Charles’ reprimands, Magnus has no such compunctions about breaking the rules—violating venue guidelines, disappearing hours before an important event, picking fights at gigs, and myriad other infractions. It’s not that the others don’t do it too, but they at least have the sense to look ashamed when Charles tells them off.

“What of it?” Magnus purses his lips, a split second expression of uncertainty glancing across his features before he re-settles his face into his playful sneer.

“I heard you were”—Charles pauses to take a sip of whiskey— “talking to the manager of Death Frenzy. And that they’re looking for a guitarist.”

“No rule against talking to other groups, is there? Thought that was what you were supposed to do in this biz: make... _connections_.” And then he has the gall to _wink_ at Charles.

“You were talking about auditioning for them,” Charles says, settling the snifter on the desk. He leans back stiffly, and laces his fingers in front of himself on the desk.

“Nothing gets past you, huh, Charles? Got ears everywhere? How many spies you got?” He pauses at Charles’ unchanged expression. “I’m kidding. Kidding.”

Magnus reaches across the desk for the other snifter and then for the decanter, eyes locked with Charles’ the entire time. He pours himself a generous two fingers, which is most of what’s left. Charles hadn’t offered to share, had in fact already had his own glass poured and been sipping it when Magnus had barged in with an insincerely cheerful _You wanted to see me, chief_? and Charles bristles at this obvious overreach.

“The non-compete clause is active for a year starting from the release of your first album.”

“People juggle multiple projects all the time. And I’ve got plenty of creativity. No point in limiting myself to one project. It’s a stupid clause.” Magnus takes a gulp of whiskey, and Charles watches with some annoyance as he swallows it down apparently without tasting it.

“These are unusual circumstances, Magnus. The other boys understand this, and I know you pride yourself on being… _smarter_ than them.” There. A little ego stroking.

“Mm. Smarter, yeah. Flatterer.” Magnus’ tone is dry, but his gaze flicks up at Charles curiously.

“I have your best interests in mind, Magnus.” Charles keeps his tone as flat and neutral as he can, and he can tell it’s starting to fray Magnus’ overconfident layer of bravado. There’s a twitch at one corner of Magnus’ lip, a micro-expression of contempt that glances across his face for the briefest moment before Magnus composes himself again. “Yours and _the band_ ’s.” Best interests _at heart_ doesn’t feel like the right phrase to use with Magnus, who’s apt to take any easy weakness he can find and run with it like a feral best into the night.

“That’s _cute_ , Chuck,” Magnus says, eyes narrowing. “That tone you’re using. And ‘best interests.’ Real protective. I bet the ladies love it. Or Pickles. Does Pickles love it?” Magnus gives a vicious sneer.

“You’re drawing erroneous conclusions. Erroneous and inappropriate.”

“Right, that’s on _me_. You don’t shit where you eat.” Magnus’ lips are curled upwards, trapped somewhere between a leer and a snarl.

“I think this meeting is over,” Charles says, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’ve explained what your contract entails, and I trust that you’ll remember it for the future. Do you have any other questions, or have I made things clear enough?”

“Crystal,” Magnus says, and stands up as he gulps down the rest of the whiskey. He sets the snifter on the desk with a pointed thud. “Nice to see you again, Chuck. Enjoyed the whiskey. Still not as good as the Ichiro, though.”

Charles listens to Magnus’ boots echo down the hallway, his footsteps heavy and sullen.

******

Charles should have known, of course, that the meeting with Magnus would not be the end of any of this. Magnus was going to do what he pleased, and if Charles wanted to stop him, it was either going to be through physical intervention or legal action, and even the latter was no guarantee.

So when he picks up the band’s mail at their PO box and sees letters from two different label execs, addressed to Magnus, Charles guesses it’s provocation. Magnus has his own address. He’s not stupid enough to give out the _shared_ PO box to a competitor. Not twice in a row.

The letters for Magnus distinguish themselves from the typical fan mail and generic advertisements by their heavy, high-quality paper and neat serif typefaces. Charles flips each one carefully, looking for a weak seam or loose glue, then slides a finger experimentally under the corner of one flap. The paper tears and Charles winces. There’s no stealthy way of opening these.

Charles considers opening them anyways. It would be well within the protocol he has outlined with the boys: he opens their mail and sorts the cagey from the legitimate. It had been his assistant’s job, but then there had been that disastrous incident with an unsteady stack of amps and, well, now he’s down a helper and a mail person. He sees a lot more nudes now than he’d otherwise want to see, and he’s got “hire a new assistant” high up there on his priority list, but for the time being, the mail has fallen to him.

If the letters are competing offers, he’s going to have to confront Magnus, to ask him what business he has flaunting his disregard, his willingness to violate the contract and get them all in a heap of legal trouble. He’ll tell Magnus that if he goes through with this, he’ll have to find another lawyer, because Charles will be firmly on the band’s side. And the label’s.

Back in his office, he tosses the rest of the stack onto a side table and takes the two letters addressed to Magnus to his desk. The letter opener cuts through the paper smoothly.

“Dear Mr. Hammersmith,

We are disappointed to hear of your decision to no longer pursue…”

Charles reads through the rest. Magnus has turned down two offers from competing labels. Both of the letters are dated from after their last conversation. Charles pauses. Maybe Magnus had reconsidered, despite his flippant attitude. Maybe this isn’t some retaliatory “gotcha” on Magnus’ part. Charles doesn’t know if he should be pleasantly surprised that Magnus has listened, or if this simply tracks with Magnus’ recent behavior: a passive-aggressive sulkiness that has permeated all of their encounters—from their prior one-on-one meeting to the handful of recording sessions Charles has been present at to the band meetings Dethklok holds regularly—since they signed that contract with Crystal Mountain.

It doesn’t do to dwell on it.

He tucks the two letters into his desk drawer and grabs the other stack. Several of the missives are stained or appear to have been wet and then dried, and then he comes across one that looks like it might be written in blood (human? animal? he doesn’t know and doesn’t really care to find out) and gives up. He’ll put a want ad out for an assistant first thing tomorrow morning.

******

Three days later, his new assistant trained and officially handling the mail (“All right, Christopher. The band gets a fan letter but there’s a suspicious stain on it. What do we do?” “Burn it?” “Correct.” “What if there are nudes included? Doesn’t the band want nudes?” “From the stained letter? No. Burn those too.”), Charles finally has some time to handle the various complaints the boys have been lobbing at him.

High priority: getting Skwisgaar’s guitar serviced; reskinning two of the drums in Pickles’ set; negotiating fees with their next venue.

Lower priority: seeing if that bar in Atlanta will honor their beer tokens the next time they come through; settling a dispute between Pickles and Murderface over some random trivia fact about the circumference of the Earth.

Lowest priority: seeing if it’s possible to get the label to agree to a line of merch made entirely out of rawhide; meeting with Magnus.

Magnus had refused to specify what he wanted to talk about, just leaned into Charles’ space, smiled toothily, and said it was “important,” but Charles isn’t expecting much.

He’d told Magnus the only time he had available was 9 am on Saturday morning (a lie) and hoped Magnus would end up partying after the previous night’s show and sleeping through their agreed-upon time, or protest that it was too early and give Charles some time to “rearrange his schedule.”

Instead, Magnus is there, bright and early, at 8:45 am, waiting outside the office and tapping his foot in a jagged rhythm on the concrete steps outside.

“Thought you’d be more punctual, boss.”

“I’m early,” Charles says, and gives Magnus a look he hopes is somewhere between neutral and withering. “We aren’t supposed to meet until nine.”

“Yeah? Thought you said eight. Been here since 8:15. Guess that makes me late. But also early? Ha.”

Charles maintains his faintly annoyed expression as best he can and unlocks the door. “Come in, then,” he says, his tone resigned.

“Don’t sound so excited to see me, Chuck,” Magnus says, and Charles, facing away from Magnus, purses his lips. “Otherwise I’ll start to think you see me like you see Pickles.”

Charles turns to face him in the narrow hallway. “If you’re going to be crass, I’m happy to cancel this meeting here and now.”

“If your thing with Pickles is over or whatever, why’s it such a sore spot?”

“It is _not_ over—” At this, Magnus lets out a bark of delight and Charles curses his poor word choice.

“It is not _over_ because it never _began_ , and I wish you’d stop trying to drag me into a conversation about it,” Charles grits out finally, and unlocks his office door.

“I’ve seen him mooning around after you, Charles. Big doey eyes, and that little whine he does when he wants attention! I mean, wow! Anyone with eyes can see he’s got it bad. Surprised you haven’t jumped on that, what with how you’re all ‘yes, Pickles’ this and ‘yes, Pickles’ that. A lot nicer to him than you are to me lately!”

“I have personal and professional standards, Magnus. And it’s my job to make sure we have what we need. That’s why you hired me. If Pickles, or Nathan, or Skwisgaar, or William, any of you, needs something, I handle it.”

“That’s _rich_ , Charles, after that little _meeting_ we had after the signing party. _Standards_.”

“I’m not discussing this with you further. What did you want to talk about?” Charles sets his briefcase on his desk and powers on his computer, watching Magnus warily out of the corner of his eye.

“Had some letters that were supposed to have come in recently,” Magnus says, settling on the chair opposite Charles and kicking his feet up onto the desk. “But I didn’t see them in the last stack. You behind on our mail or something?”

“Feet off the desk.” Charles doesn’t bother to add a _please_. “I’ve just hired a new assistant, and he’s still learning how we do things around here. He’s handling the mail now.”

Magnus doesn’t budge. “Your new little buddy see any letters for me? They’re of a… personal nature.”

“Approved fan mail gets distributed to you boys weekly on Fridays. You know that. If it wasn’t there yesterday, you’ll get it next Friday.”

“Not fan mail. Business,” Magnus says. “Time sensitive. Also, ‘boys’? We’re nearly the same age, Charles. Thought that was what you _liked_ about me.” He crosses his feet at the ankle, watching to see if it riles Charles, and Charles can see the miscellaneous street grit that’s accumulated on the worn soles.

Charles takes one booted foot in his hand, careful to avoid making direct contact with the soles, and squeezes. Hard. “Feet. Off. The desk.”

“Strong grip you got there, buddy. Wouldn’t have guessed it based on how tentative you were with my—”

“Out. Now.” He tightens his grip and shoves. Magnus’ feet slide off the desk with a shrill scraping noise and Charles notes with satisfaction the look on Magnus’ face as he loses his balance. Charles is less pleased by the skid mark the boots leave, but some furniture polish should clear it right off. He’ll get Christopher on that as soon as he comes in.

Pulling himself up by gripping the edge of the chair, Magnus tries to compose himself and lets his face settle back into something resembling cockiness. But Charles has seen it waver now and stands up forcefully.

 _Move into someone’s space to subtly pressure them into going where you want_ was a strategy he’d learned in a body language class, and even if half the stuff had been bunk, he’d found it a useful enough tactic for wrangling the boys, who could generally be herded, if they were placid enough, like a small group of cattle.

Magnus is taken aback enough now, Charles decides, that it’s worth trying, and he moves around his desk so he’s on the same side as Magnus. He takes one calculated step forward and Magnus, already knocked off-kilter, takes his own step back, the cocky grin replaced by a look of hurt confusion.

“Right. Sorry,” Magnus says quickly, cowed, and _that_ knocks Charles for a loop. He’d been expecting some pseudo-aggressive challenge or masculine posturing, or even for Magnus to attempt to get physical in return, but not _this_ , this sudden tender hurt, like Charles has pressed his thumb into Magnus’ bruised chest.

Charles retreats.

“I apologize,” he says, but Magnus still has that _look_ on his face. “Your letters… I assume you’re referring to the ones from Death Frenzy’s label? And Aether Records?”

“Mm-hmm,” Magnus says, standing there with his hands in his pockets. Charles can see his fingers clenching under the fabric, like he’s not sure what to do with them.

“They’re, ah, here. In my desk drawer. I got to them before I’d hired the new assistant.”

He offers them to Magnus, who takes them and pulls the first letter out, giving it a brief ten-second scan before looking back up at Charles. He doesn’t open the second one, apparently already aware of what it says.

“You opened them.”

“We open all your mail. That’s what the band agreed on. Less hassle for you boys this way.”

“So you know what they say.”

“I—yes, Magnus, I know what they say.” Charles pauses. Magnus is still uncomfortably reserved. “I suppose I should, ah, thank you for listening when I asked you not to pursue those deals any further.”

“No problem, chief,” Magnus says sullenly, and shoves the letters into the breast pocket of his shirt, mashing them so they crumple. Charles hears the faint tearing of a seam, but Magnus doesn’t seem to notice.

“Before you leave, ah, there are a few other things for you,” Charles says, and grabs the stack of letters he’d set aside for Christopher to give Magnus on Friday. Magnus takes the mail with a perturbed expression and tucks it under his arm. Slipped in between a few innocuous pieces of mail is a note from Charles, and it won’t do to have Magnus find it right at that moment.

“Right. Well. I’m very busy today, Magnus. Phone meeting with Cornickelson in ten minutes. I’ll see you out.”

Magnus narrows his eyes. “I know where the door is, _Chuck_ ,” he says, his words laced with bitterness.

It’s only then, as Magnus is stalking out of the room, that Charles realizes Magnus has done up the buttons of his shirt. The clack of Magnus’ shoes echoes down the hallway and Charles sits back at his desk and rests his head in his hands.

They’d signed the Crystal Mountain contract three and a half weeks earlier, and Charles has been treading carefully ever since.

******

The restaurant he’d taken them to was crowded, and much nicer than anywhere he’d normally bring them, but he reckoned they deserved it after getting that contract signed. And they’d done so with only minimal bloodshed and disruption (William is… William, and Nathan’s still working on the punching people thing, but it was only one person, and Charles rather thinks he deserved it.) It was success enough that he’d managed to get them to sign their actual names, instead of Pickles drunkenly scribbling a smiley face, or Murderface insisting on using the special fountain pen he’d bought when he’d gotten certified as a notary and pitching a fit when he realized he didn’t have it.

So they deserved a treat. Something fancy, on his tab for the night, or until they received their advance, at least, at which point he’d withdraw whatever they ended up spending and list it as a “business expense.”

The boys buy drinks of course: wine, cocktails, fancy ales. Charles allows himself a drink with them, too. They’re celebrating, and he’ll be careful—he knows his limits. But they’re insistent on him partaking in the festivities too, and when he tries to beg off after his first glass of champagne, he finds Pickles shoving a whiskey at him and demanding he “lighten up.”

So he takes the whiskey, and when he brings it to his nose he can smell it’s a good one. “Thank you,” he says. “Very nice.”

Pickles beams at the approval.

Magnus, who has been sitting across from Charles embroiled in a debate with Skwisgaar over the merits of one amplifier brand over another, looks over.

“It’s Hibiki Harmony. Japanese whiskey,” he says, grinning at Charles. “My pick.” He cuts his gaze to Pickles, who looks annoyed at the interruption.

“Y’did good, getting us this contract,” Magnus says, and raises his own glass.

Magnus isn’t one for compliments. Not genuine ones. He likes to snip and snarl and challenge. It feels like a small victory, to hear sincere appreciation from one of the boys. Charles raises his glass in return and takes a small sip. It _is_ nice.

The food is rich, more decadent than any member of the band has eaten in a while, and it shows. Charles has to reach across the table at one point to stop Murderface from actually lifting his appetizer plate to his face and licking it clean. Nathan isn’t paying attention to anything except shoveling food into his mouth as fast as he can without choking. Pickles at least has a few table manners, drilled into him by his strict Midwestern upbringing and fortified by fancy events and record label dinners he’d attended back in his Snakes ‘n’ Barrels days, but even he eats ravenously, cutlery and ceramic clanging aggressively with every bite.

Skwisgaar picks at his meal, taking careful mouthfuls, because he’s still trying to carry on that conversation with Magnus, who hunches over his own food like a hyena at a kill.

Charles knows they have jobs, or, at least, Magnus and Murderface do, but he’s remembering the cost of living in a big city is never low, and that Magnus has complained more than once about how much of his paycheck the rent sucks away, living alone as he is. Charles has seen “Mordhaus,” too, graffitied walls and trash cans overflowing out front, and an air conditioner that smells perpetually of mildew even as he’d taken pity on them in the middle of a cruel heatwave and sent a technician out to repair it, paid for out of his own pocket. Wouldn’t do to have any of them die of heatstroke, of course.

“Classy as ever, eh, Charles?” Magnus says, and Charles’ attention is jerked back to the present moment.

“Ah, I’m sorry, Magnus. I must have missed that. Lots of, ah, activity at the table,” he says, and casts his gaze over to Pickles and Nathan, who are staring at the drinks menu and comparing the merits of various highballs.

(“The Long Island Iced Teas are huuuuuuuge here. I saw a waiter carrying one.”

“Yeah, but what if it’s watered down? They do that sometimes with the big ones, too much ice, not enough booze. Or they fuck it up and put actual _tea_ in it. Leaf water.”

“Aren’t there like five kinds of booze in it?”

“I’ve been drinkin’ longer than you. Just sayin’. I know how to get the best booze bang for my buck at a fancy-pants place like dis.”

“Whatever. _You_ choose then, Pickles. Jeez.”)

“Oh, I was just commenting on your drink of choice,” Magnus says. “Saw that fancy decanter in your office. Whiskey? Brandy?”

“Oh, ah, well, it depends. Brandy, right now. But you get gifted lots of different things in the business.” He takes another sip of the whiskey. It really is quite nice, a deep sweet burnt caramel note first, and then the slight tang of the citrus peel at the end. Magnus is watching him thoughtfully, an eyebrow quirked in playful interest. “There was an excellent bourbon I had a few weeks ago,” Charles continues, buoyed by Magnus’ apparent attentiveness, “but that gets put away pretty quickly at meetings, if you’re with the right—or wrong—people, that is.”

The alcohol is working on him, he realizes, loosening his tongue and making everything warmer, friendlier.

Magnus is holding his own glass, and Charles gives a tilt of his head towards it. “And you?”

“Same as yours.”

“Ah, lovely. I didn’t know you were partial to the Japanese whiskeys.”

“I’m an Ichiro guy myself, but this was the next best thing on the menu.”

“Mm. Going to have to disagree with you there, Magnus,” Charles says, and takes a small sip. “The caramel notes in this are excellent, much richer than the Ichiro.”

Magnus’ eyes light up at this challenge.

“Actually, hold on, Magnus,” Charles says. “If you like the Ichiro, let me get you a glass of Delord. I know: it’s a brandy, not whiskey. But I think you’ll appreciate it.”

Skwisgaar has turned his attention away from Magnus to watch Nathan and Pickles pillage the complementary bread basket in a competition to see who can fit more in their mouth at once while Murderface cheers them on. Magnus glances at them and then back at Charles and grins. “Children, eh?” he says, and raises his glass slightly. “Happy to try whatever you recommend, chief.”

Charles summons the waiter and the drink arrives with the main courses, which the rest of the band set on like feral dogs. Magnus pauses before starting on his meal, picking up the Delord and giving it an appreciative sniff. “Smells… aged,” he says. “Full bodied.”

“Oak barrels. Twenty-five years.”

“Why don’t you have one for yourself?”

“Ah, well, still working on the whiskey,” Charles says, and Magnus grins.

“Nothing wrong with having two drinks. Save the brandy for when you’re done. A little _digestif_ . Or are you gonna let us have _dessert_ , Charles?” Magnus says, and there’s something slithery in his tone that might make a man weaker than Charles shiver with insinuation.

“I—well, I… of course,” Charles says, regaining his composure. “It’s my treat. You all did well.” He turns his attention away from Magnus to summon the waiter for his own glass of brandy (bad idea) and a water (better idea).

“Didja hear that, everyone? Dessert’s on Chuck!” Magnus announces to the rest of the table, raising his glass. His pronouncement is greeted with a dissonant chorus of whoops.

Whatever odd spell has settled over the two of them seems to dissipate with the announcement, everyone else’s attention broken and regrouped on new topics of discussion, and Magnus takes up then with Nathan and Pickles, listening to them chronicle their bread-eating competition with a look of benevolent amusement. Charles allows the tension to leave his shoulders. The tonal innuendo had been a product of his imagination, he reckons, the effect of too much alcohol and not enough food.

And then Charles freezes.

There’s a boot-clad foot caressing his calf under the table. The toe is distinctively pointed. He runs through the possibilities, even as the answer presents itself immediately to him. Pickles wears sneakers, and is also sitting to his left. Physically impossible, then, unless Pickles can do something with his joints as of yet undiscovered by man. The same reasoning eliminates Nathan, who’s sitting to Pickles’ left and gulping down a Long Island Iced Tea like it’s a morning glass of milk and he’s late for school.

That leaves Skwisgaar, Murderface, or Magnus, and Charles knows Murderface and Skwisgaar favor boots with more rounded toes. (He’s already cataloging details like this about them, already trying to accumulate and put together every puzzle piece he can find, to learn what makes them tick, their likes and dislikes, and what it is about them that works as a group when they’re such unmitigated human disasters individually.)

He knows, too, that Magnus likes those heeled cubans, too showy by half, which add to his already formidable height. They allow him to stand even over Nathan, whose bulk lends him an impression of solidness that Magnus lacks. Magnus is wiry enough that the outline of his sternum is faintly visible under his pectoral muscles when he’s got his shirt unbuttoned, which is most of the time.

This evening, though, Magnus has remembered his manners and decided to do his shirt up to its second button, sparing the restaurant the sight of his scrawny ribcage. And Charles is sure, like, one hundred percent positive, that it’s Magnus’ foot running up and down his calf, the hard tip of the boot digging slightly into the muscle as though Magnus were trying to map the contours of Charles’ leg by feel alone.

But Magnus isn’t looking at him as he does this—he still appears to be entirely absorbed by Nathan and Pickles’ bread-eating competition, and then he’s drawing Murderface into the conversation, something about how he bets Murderface could out-eat both of them, and Murderface is reaching for the bread, and Magnus’ foot is still there, tracing a lazy path up and down Charles’ leg.

Charles, too startled at first to do anything, stays frozen where he is, forkful of steak halfway to his mouth, unaware of the line of meat juice running down the handle until it makes contact with his fingers. He startles, and then his wits have the good sense to return to him, and he pulls his leg away sharply as he tugs his napkin up from his lap to dry his hand.

Magnus’ eyes dart back to Charles, but his expression is level and unfazed, and he only holds Charles’ gaze for a few seconds before returning to egging on Murderface, who’s making a valiant attempt at cramming one more piece of bread into his overstuffed mouth.

Charles can’t decide if he should finish the bite of steak he’s got waiting, or, against his better judgment, go straight for the brandy. There’s no way Magnus _isn’t_ doing this on purpose, and it’s not as though Charles hasn’t dealt with unprofessional inter-office behavior before, but that’s always been shut down briskly, with a cursory apology or a reprimand, depending on what the situation calls for.

But the last thing Charles wants to do right now is draw attention to any of this. It’s not fair to the boys to make a scene, not at _their_ celebration, and Magnus seems to have gotten the hint. Charles decides against saying anything, at least for now. They’ll have to have a discussion about boundaries at another date. He’s already planned what he’s going to say to Pickles after an embarrassing flirtation attempt the week prior. He figures he can reuse the same script for both of them.

What Charles can’t fathom is _why_ Magnus is doing this. He’s seen the others act out in various ways, and for them it’s usually an impulsive attempt to fulfill an unmet need. Magnus holds himself above the others, though, above their petty squabbles and short-lived tempers, as though he’s the only one among them who’s really got everything figured out.

But Magnus also holds himself _apart_ from them, Charles thinks. He keeps his own place, works his own hours (and tells the others that they’ll just have to “deal with” his schedule), skips half of the band’s get-togethers (Charles can’t fault him for this, but it’s an interesting little pebble of information he’s dug out nonetheless, and he’ll save that one for later too), and he shows up to every meeting tense and coiled, like he’s ready for some earth-shattering announcement. Charles thinks maybe Magnus’ standoffish behavior could be a sign of a full, well-lived life outside of Dethklok, but he doubts it.

Happy people don’t drink the way Magnus drinks.

He could argue the same about Pickles, he knows, who seems to drink a frankly obscene amount, but Pickles has other reasons for drinking, and they all happen in about equal measure. Sometimes it’s a wretched, all-consuming self-pity that drives Pickles’ alcoholism, and other times he’s just out with Nathan and ready to have a good time.

The consideration that Magnus could be _lonely_ isn’t one that had crossed Charles’ mind before tonight. The superiority complex, yes: the uncomfortable level of control he seems to want to exert over the rest of the band certainly gives credence to this.

But Charles also hasn’t spent much time one-on-one with Magnus, preoccupied as he is with wrangling the others—figuring out how to prevent paternity lawsuits from Skwisgaar’s insatiable sexual appetites; paying off Pickles’ DUI tickets; steadying Nathan’s trigger-happy “delete finger; curbing Murderface’s fascination with public urination.

Magnus has always seemed to him, Charles realizes, capable enough to manage himself, only a little effort required to smooth over his creative-control temper tantrums or his brief manic impulses. (Though he _had_ gotten that one girl’s name tattooed on his arm despite Charles’ best attempts at dissuading him. That tattoo, as far Charles knows, is now covered by something else, though Magnus’ sleeves obscure it most of the time anyways.)

Charles shifts slightly in his seat, untucking his foot from where he’d squashed it behind the chair leg. Magnus hasn’t spared him another glance; Charles thinks maybe his withdrawal has made the message clear.

He takes his time with his steak, listening to the band discuss the next some they’re working on, something that sounds like Magnus has had a large part in writing, and as he pierces the last piece with his fork, he hears Pickles yelp, “ _Finally_!”

Charles looks around the table. Everyone else’s plates have already been cleared, and they’re passing around a dessert menu. Nathan is trying to decide between molten lava cake and cheesecake and wondering out loud if it’s gay to share dessert with another man.

“Magnusch made usch wait until you were done,” Murderface says.

“I—that’s very considerate. For all of you to wait, that is. Please, though, don’t hold off on my account.”  
  
Skwisgaar and Nathan let their awkward politeness get the better of them and limit themselves to one dessert each when the waiter finally returns, while Murderface hems and haws for what seems like five minutes, vacillating between some sort of lemon cake and a mousse trio. But then Pickles goes full-throttle and gets _three_ items and all bets are off, everyone but Magnus calling for the frazzled waiter’s attention until Charles takes pity on the man and says, “Just bring them whatever they ask for and leave it at the center of the table.”

“They can fight it out,” Magnus cuts in, and grins at Charles. The waiter looks even more concerned.

“Ah. Well, maybe not fight, Magnus. But… I’m sure they’ll figure it out,” he says to try and soothe the waiter’s nerves. He offers the man a grateful smile and makes a mental note to leave a very generous tip.

“And for you, sir?” the waiter asks Magnus, and Magnus looks at the menu for a moment before shaking his head.

“I’m all good.” He taps a fingernail against his glass of brandy. “This is plenty.” He offers the menu to Charles, his eyes drilling into him with an intensity that makes Charles’ skin prickle with a nervous sweat.

Charles takes the menu in hand but as he moves to pull it towards himself, Magnus doesn’t let his grip waver. It’s only for a moment, this brief tug, but Magnus relinquishes the menu with a little huff of air, and then, obscenely, so quick that Charles almost wouldn’t believe he’d seen it, a lascivious swipe of tongue over his upper lip.

And then there’s something touching Charles’ calf again, but it’s soft this time, and Charles kicks back reflexively, his heel smacking against the chair leg. The thing follows, and the roving shape starts to clarify in Charles’ mind: the curve of an arch, the flex of toes, the rough fabric of a sock.

Magnus has somehow managed to toe off one of his boots and is once again attempting to initiate some sort of awful game of footsie. His movements are bolder now, creeping up past the knee towards Charles’ thigh, and Charles realizes he’s trapped, the waiter hovering behind him and preventing him from scooting his chair back and his leg out of reach.

“Sir?” the waiter says, a quavery note in his voice like he’d very much like to run back to the safety of the kitchen.

“I, ah, no—no dessert for me, thank you,” Charles says quickly, and shoves the menu up at the waiter with a little too much force.

“Very good, sir,” the waiter says, and darts away before anyone can add anything else to their order.

Magnus’ foot keeps making intrusions into Charles’ personal space, even as he tries subtly to shift his chair backwards. Magnus’ legs are too fucking long. He must be at least what? Six foot? Six foot two? Presently most of that height appears to be made up of leg. There’s no escape, and he can reach Charles’ lap even as Charles scoots his chair back as far as he can without being in the walkway. The waiter still has to make an awkward detour around Charles, dodging forks and questing hands as he puts each dessert on the table.

The other four take stabs at what looks like a dozen different items, ice cream and cakes and pie slices, even Skwisgaar taking any chance afforded to him to dart a fork in a steal an opportune bite. Magnus is watching them with detached amusement, but doesn’t make any moves himself. Instead, all his physical energy appears to be directed towards Charles, his foot still caressing Charles’ thigh under the table, and here Magnus has apparently decided to forego all pretense. The sole of his foot presses lightly against Charles’ crotch and it’s all Charles can do to stifle a startled wheeze. He feels his hips jolt instinctively into the touch, and if he freezes like that for a moment before trying to pull back again, well, that’s the price of analyzing an unexpected situation.

And then, just as quickly, Magnus retreats. Charles feels Magnus’ toes skim the surface of his slacks, the faintest of touches, and Charles tries, and fails, to release the tension from his body. Maybe Magnus’ game of gay chicken has finally reached its end, Magnus satisfied with the embarrassing reaction he’s managed to wring out of Charles.

Pickles turns to Charles to ask something, apparently right as Magnus is attempting to resume his bizarre flirtation, and Charles thanks whatever deity there may or may not be, or whatever alien creature is running this hellish simulation, for this brief respite.

“Dood, ya kicked me!”

“Oops,” Magnus says, and grins at Pickles. “Getting a little cramped under here. Just wanted to stretch my legs.”

Pickles mutters something that Charles doesn’t quite make out, and Magnus’ eyes harden for a split second. “What was that, Pickles?”

“Nothin’. Nothin’ at all.”

Pickles leans forward into Charles’ space, face flushed with drink and a smudge of chocolate on his lower lip.

“You’ve, ah, got something there, on your face, Pickles,” Charles says, pointing to the corresponding spot on his own lip.

Pickles touches his face and then smudges the chocolate away, licking it off his fingertips, his eyes locked with Charles’.

“I was meanin’ to ask you, chief,” he slurs after he’s done.

“Yes, Pickles?” Charles can feel Magnus watching them both. He’s crossing his arms and his brow is creased slightly, but he’s also keeping his feet to himself for now, on account of Pickles’ legs blocking his path. Pickles’ knees are pressed into Charles’ thigh.

“How’re _you_ payin’ for this?” I thought we all got money at the same time?”

“I’ve got, ah, funds of my own.”

“He’s got a _job_ , Pickles. You should try getting one. Or, hey, why don’t you try hitting on that one waitress over there? She’s makin’ eyes at you. I think she figured out who you are,” Magnus interrupts, and the sharp, aggressive tone hidden under the apparent casualness in his voice catches even Charles by surprise. It’s somewhere between that of a possessive lover and the growl of a dog defending its bone.

“Oh. Nah, she’s not my type,” Pickles mutters, glancing over at the waitress, who is not paying them an ounce of attention, and he turns back to Charles. “Oh, yeah, you got a job, huh? Yer a lawyer. Thass’ right.” The smell of alcohol is heavy on Pickles’ breath. He’s either too sloshed to notice Magnus’ tone or he’s just pretending not to have heard it.

“Yes, Pickles. I’m a lawyer. Your lawyer. Dethklok’s lawyer, that is,” Charles is quick to clarify. If he can stay conversing with Pickles without any interruptions from Magnus, he can hopefully will away this uncomfortable tension in his groin and not make an absolute fool of himself. He pulls the napkin in his lap up a little further.

“Good, cuz my residuals don’t come in for another two weeks. I can’t afford any a’ this,” Pickles says, and then he squawks out a little “Hey!” of disbelief and swivels away, because Nathan’s fork is half a second away from piercing the last bite of chocolate lava cake on Pickles’ plate. Pickles parries clumsily with his own fork, sending an arc of chocolate sauce onto the table cloth. Nathan throws his napkin over the stain to conceal it from the approaching waitstaff, and whatever conversation Pickles had been attempting to have with Charles is forgotten in the ensuing squabble over this mishap.

Magnus hunches forward, elbows on the table, and rests his chin on the top of his hands. Charles can feel Magnus’ foot on his thigh again, and Magnus shifts in his seat. Charles has the sudden, perverse thought that Magnus might be trying, none too subtly, to conceal an erection of his own.

The restaurant’s dim lighting throws a scattering of shadows across Magnus’ face, his hair falling loosely over his cheeks, and Charles has to scramble for his glass of brandy to give himself something to do with his hands and his unfortunate, wandering attention.

The rest of the band finally finish their desserts and Charles is relieved to see everyone’s fingers intact. Now he can herd them out of the restaurant and into a taxi or two, get one of his own, and return home to the privacy of his condo to deal with this… situation. (And maybe Magnus would be there, his carnal, desperate lizard brain suggests, offering a helping hand since he’s the one who _started_ all this.)

“One more round of drinks,” Magnus says, as though reading the relief on Charles’ face. He _knows_ none of them are going to say no to more booze. He’s facing the band, but he flicks his gaze to Charles, watching him out of the corner of his eye for a reaction. And that _grin_ is there again: the hungry, arch leer.

“I—fine. _One_ drink each,” Charles says, because now there’s an additional four sets of eyes on him, and Pickles is definitely breaking out the puppy stare and the little open-mouth pout he does when he really wants something. Charles beckons the nervous-looking waiter over.

He watches them with their drinks—none of them are particularly slow or subtle about their enjoyment, and he knows for a fact that Pickles and Nathan are at least five drinks in now. Pickles is holding up better than Nathan, who’s slouching under the crush of intoxication and carb-loading, but Pickles is already finished with his, a strong gin and tonic with a sad brown lime wedge that he’s swirling around the bottom of his glass along with the melting ice cube remnants.

And then Magnus’ foot is back, aggressive and graceless, creeping further up Charles’ leg, spending more time pressed against Charles’ thigh. Magnus shifts slightly in his chair, and then he’s pressing the arch against Charles’ groin again, and this time he’s _not_ moving away. He flexes his toes slightly and Charles can feel the _grip_ of them and has to work to suppress the shiver that makes its way up his back.

“Y’okay, chief?” Pickles’ expression is one of concern, and Charles quietly thanks whatever cruel deity there is for at least blessing him with the cover of the table cloth.

“I’m… I’m fine, Pickles,” Charles manages, and as he’s taking a sip of water Magnus does something with his toes that must require an intense amount of fine motor control. Charles splutters into his glass and Pickles starts whaling on his back, urging him not to choke, and Charles has never wanted to disappear more than at this moment.

As he regains his composure, Magnus retreats and Charles sees Nathan is grabbing for the drink menu again.

“If you want to drink more, it’s not, unfortunately, going to be on my tab,” he says, and Nathan’s hand jerks back as though he’s been caught stealing from the cookie jar. Charles hears Magnus snicker, though he disguises it quickly with a cough.

“Fine, we’ll finish celebrating at a bar or something then,” Nathan says sulkily, and then, less defensively, “You wanna come?”

Magnus lets out a smug little snort, but waves off Nathan’s brief confused look.

“I… no, thank you. I’ve got business to attend to tomorrow morning. And please, don’t forget we have that meeting with Crystal Mountain tomorrow at noon.”

“I think I’m gonna stick around with Charles,” Magnus says, and stretches, and his foot presses again against Charles’ dick. Charles feels a queasy, lustful jerk in his gut. “Wanna go over a few details of the contract with a fine-tooth comb.”

“Nerd,” says Nathan, though not unkindly, and then the rest of them are leaving, a forcefield of noise and alcohol miasma.

“One more drink for the road?” Magnus asks.

Charles hesitates.

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” Magnus purrs from across the table, and Charles considers for one more moment, then summons the waiter.

“Another brandy, please,” he says, and Magnus’ grin widens further than Charles thought physically possible. This man is going to swallow him whole and spit out the bones, and Charles realizes he might just let him.

Charles had been keeping a mental running total, but had given up somewhere around the four hundred dollar mark, and the check, when it arrives, makes him wince. When he puts down his credit card, Magnus lets out an appreciative whistle at its metallic sheen.

“Platinum. You’re partyin’ with the big boys there, huh, Charles? Gonna treat me to anything else tonight?” Magnus winks as he says this, and then he’s ducking under the table, saying something about his boots that Charles doesn’t quite catch.

He gives Charles a hard squeeze on the thigh while he’s down there, perilously close to Charles’ crotch, and then he brushes the palm of his hand against Charles’ erection and Charles swears he can hear him snicker from under the tablecloth.

******

They get a taxi.

There are a hundred, a thousand moments, Charles thinks later, where he could have made a different decision. He could have refused the first drink. The second. The third. He could have asked the taxi to pull over in front of the 24-hour diner three blocks before the hotel, given the driver a fifty and asked him to take Magnus home. He could have been crueler still, slipped away from the hotel through a side door, leaving Magnus waiting, smoking first one cigarette, and then another, and another, waiting for Charles in the humid drizzle of that Florida night.

“Fancy place,” Magnus says dryly, looking up at the DoubleTree Inn the taxi has dropped them at. “Glad you’re pullin’ out all the stops to impress me, buddy.”

“I… wait here,” Charles says, and Magnus gives him a wry smile.

“Wouldn’t want the bellboys to get the wrong idea,” Magnus says, and pulls a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. He lights one, and when he sees Charles hasn’t made any further move, waves him away.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere, Chuck,” he says, cigarette balanced carefully between his lips. “Go get us that room.” His gaze cuts through the curling smoke from his cigarette, and Charles swallows.

When Charles returns, two keycards for a single smoking room clutched in his sweaty palm, Magnus is grinding the cigarette out on the sole of his boot. He looks up as Charles approaches and flicks the butt away.

“What’d you get us? The budget-friendly option? Two full beds?”

“I was thinking, ah, something larger.”

“Oh? You decide not to cheap out? Wasn’t sure with the place you picked out.” He gestures at the shabby facade of the hotel. “Got us a full suite or something?”

“I, ah, I was referring to the size of… of the bed.”

“Practical as ever,” Magnus says. “Lead the way, then.”

The room is even less fancy than Charles had anticipated, barebones in its furnishings, the edge of the bedspread fraying and the single overhead light casting a grayish glow over everything. The window faces a freeway, and the sound of the passing semi trucks is enough to pierce through the walls and make the room echo with the whistle of air brakes.

“Romantic,” Magnus says, taking in the room with an air of indifference.

Charles feels something in his gut twist at the idea of any of this being “romantic.” This is, if anything, _functional_. Impersonal, he hopes. At best they’re just two people, unaccustomed to the world they’ve made themselves at home in, finding some brief physical gratification in one another.

Romantic would be an “at worst” scenario.

As if reading Charles’ mind, Magnus says, “I’m just fuckin’ with you, Chuck,” and gives Charles that _smile_ again: the hungry, possessive one that makes Charles feel like prey. It’s not a feeling Charles experiences with any frequency, and it’s not one that he particularly likes.

Magnus takes easy, languid steps around the bed. Six strides and he’s made his way around all three open sides. The man really _is_ all leg, Charles thinks. The faint smell of cigarette smoke drifts from Magnus’ hair, mixing with the scent of some sort of product, shampoo or styling cream, a generic “clean” scent, appropriately masculine, and it makes Charles’ lower belly twinge with want.

He’s already decided he’s doing this, or the alcohol’s decided for him, and it’s not like it was _his_ idea, after all. Magnus had come on to him. And he’d just happened to agree.

Of course there’s some small part of his conscience, tucked away in a cage built from alcohol and lust, yowling its protest, its calls for _professionalism_ and _moral standards_ echoing from time to time over the thrum of his pulse.

And certainly Magnus isn’t an _unattractive_ man. A few years before, hollow cheeks and slow, sleepy eyes had been all the rage in certain circles, and with his hair trimmed back and his beard sheared away, Magnus could certainly pass for conventionally good-looking. But he styles himself in a manner so counter to it, an anti-fashion middle finger to anyone who might try to see him as anything remotely resembling conventional, that Charles wonders briefly if Magnus had ever been aware of himself in that way.

And that’s one of the things Charles has catalogued about Magnus—his drive to be _unique_ , to be seen as _creative_ and _inimitable_ , a drive for praise and acknowledgement that borders on neurotic. And Magnus is particular, too—he scoffs and sneers and snarls at anything that doesn’t meet his standards, so to have him there, wanting Charles, is its own terrible, flattering draw.

Charles has left it for so long, too, his own desires packaged up and compartmentalized, locked away where he doesn’t have to entertain them, all under the guise of self-control, self-restraint, self-denial. To have this, then, this man luminous and impetuous, in front of him, eager and easy and _dangerous_ , is almost more than Charles can bear.

“We’re doing this, then?” Magnus asks, hands already tugging at the lapels of Charles’ jacket, and Charles nods, once, and that’s all it takes.

And now Magnus is pulling Charles close to him, and he looms a good five inches over Charles. His dry, rough hands are pushing Charles’ suit jacket down and off, and Charles rolls his shoulders to help him along. Magnus’ mouth tastes of cigarettes and the sour-sweet aftertaste of brandy, and underneath those there’s something else, something metallic and animal and ravenous. His fingers work at the buttons of Charles’ shirt, but he’s clumsy, not looking at what he’s doing, and Charles finally takes pity on him and undoes the rest.

Magnus is a bitey kisser, tugging at Charles’ lips with his teeth, and he’s not gentle about it either, until Charles pulls away and dabs at his lips with a finger, which comes away with a watery red smear. So that’s what that metallic taste was, Charles thinks, and sucks in his lower lip, trying to press his tongue against the cut to staunch the blood flow.

Magnus, seeing the red, his voice thick with desire, says, “Oops,” which is as close to an apology as Charles figures he’s going to get. But Magnus is already pressing his mouth against Charles’ throat, grazing his teeth against a prominent vein there, like he’s going to sink his fangs in and drain Charles dry.

“No marks,” Charles says with a soft groan, and Magnus pulls back, looking down at Charles with something dark and hungry behind his eyes.

“Not where anyone can see,” Magnus says. He bites and laps at Charles’ chest, where his collar bones meet above his heart, and Charles wonders if Magnus’ canines are artificially sharpened, because each nip and graze feels powerful enough to split skin.

Magnus’ mouth wanders lower, and he murmurs appreciatively into the muscles of Charles’ abdomen. And then he’s kissing his way back up, his mouth returning to the darkening spot on Charles’ chest, and Charles doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

He lets them rest on Magnus’ shoulders, bunching the coarse fabric of Magnus’ shirt under his fingers, and then above Magnus’ hips as he moves. Magnus pulls back and peels away his shirt, undoing each of the buttons one by one in a gesture that feels almost finicky, like even in the depths of lust he couldn’t bear the idea of ruining something he owned. That, or it’s a tease. The heavy-lidded eye contact as he undoes each button makes Charles think it’s some sort of flirtation.

Shirt successfully shed, Magnus drops it to the floor and leans back into Charles’ space. His mouth is back on Charles’ then, and he’s pressing their hips together. Charles allows himself to lean into it, and he can feel the swell of Magnus through the denim. Magnus is a substantial man, both in height and… elsewhere, it seems, and Charles isn’t inexperienced, but he also isn’t necessarily confident in his ability to fit something that big inside himself. He also isn’t sure he trusts what other places Magnus may or may not have been able to fit it.

Magnus drops to his knees in front of Charles then, and that is not at all how he’d expected the night to go. Truthfully, Charles doesn’t know what he’d thought was going to happen, knowing what he does about Magnus’ appetites, but it’s not this scarecrow of a man folding in front of him and yanking at his belt buckle with something akin to hunger.

“Oh,” Charles breathes, and Magnus stares up at him as he works at Charles’ belt.

The tattoo on Magnus’ shoulder is no longer that girl’s name; it’s been replaced by something dark and ribbon-like, but in the dim light and with Magnus’ arms moving to undo his belt, Charles can’t quite make out what it is.

The weight of responsibility breaks through the hazy fog of alcohol and desire, and even as Magnus is sliding Charles’ slacks down around his ankles, and even as Charles kicks off first one shoe and then the other so he can step out of them, and even as Magnus settles his fingers into the waistband of Charles’ underwear, Charles can’t think of anything except how fucked this all is. This is _absolutely_ going to make things weird. He’s never, ever heard of a manager-musician relationship that didn’t eventually shatter like glass, leaving invisible, painful shards lanced through everything.

Magnus tugs Charles’ underwear down and his hand wraps loosely around Charles’ erection. The roughness of Magnus’ palm feels better than it has any right to, Charles thinks. It’s been too long since he’s been with anyone, and he wonders if Magnus can tell, if the twitch of his hips or the tightening of his fist, the nails digging into his palms, gives him away so easily.

Magnus gives a few experimental strokes, watching Charles’ face as he does, and Magnus’ own expression is some mixture of cocky and, frighteningly, tender. It makes something in Charles curdle, and he pulls back slightly, but Magnus’ hand is still on his dick and the sensation of pulling through Magnus’ loose fist sends another shiver through Charles.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” Charles breathes, and Magnus pauses for a moment, his other hand resting on Charles’ thigh.

“But you are,” Magnus says, looking up at him, and digs his fingers lightly into the muscle there. “Why not make the best of it?”

And then his mouth is on Charles, and he forgets to protest anymore.

Magnus, Charles notes, knows what he’s doing. His tongue is heavy and deliberate against the underside of Charles’ cock. He doesn’t take it all in, not all at once, but the variation in pressure and suction is… oddly thoughtful for someone Charles had pegged as impulsive and near manic in most situations.

Magnus’ eyes are open, and his stare is too much. He doesn’t look away from Charles’ face as he works his mouth over Charles’ cock, and Charles wants both to look away and absorb every single detail.

Magnus uses his hands too, one gripping Charles’ hip and the other wrapped around the length of Charles that isn’t in his mouth. Magnus rolls the tip of his tongue lightly against the head of Charles’ cock and Charles lets out a shuddery little sigh. Magnus’ brow quirks up in delight and he pops off to gloat. “Fuckin’ _finally_. I thought you were just gonna be quiet the whole time. And where’s the fun in that, Chuck?”

Charles feels the heat rise in his cheeks. The idea that this man, that Magnus, of all people, could judge him feels faintly absurd, and then Charles has to remind himself which one of them has actually made the decision to sleep with Magnus. Magnus has to live with himself every day. Charles has no such obligation.

“You’re so quiet I wasn’t sure you were actually, y’know, into this. Mentally, or whatever. Physically, I mean, you’re _at attention_.” Magnus gives Charles’ dick a light squeeze and Charles bucks slightly into his grip.

“I—” Charles falters.

“You can be loud,” Magnus says, and his voice is kinder now, as though he thinks Charles is just shy and he needs permission to enjoy himself. “Sit,” he instructs, and moves forward into Charles’ space. Charles feels the edge of the bed bump against the back of his calves as he steps backwards and he lets his weight settle onto the mattress.

“Lovely,” Magnus says, looking down at Charles. His eyes are heavy with lust and something else that Charles can’t place.

And then he’s ducking back down, his mouth on Charles again, and Charles allows himself a small moan. Magnus squeezes his leg encouragingly and hums his own pleased reply around Charles’ cock.

Magnus’ mouth is magnificently hot and he runs his tongue along Charles’ length, bobbing easily and taking Charles all the way in. It’s… exquisite, is what it is, after so many weeks—no, months—of abstinence, and Charles decides, finally, to submerge himself in it, in all the sensations and pleasures Magnus is offering him.

He rests his hand on Magnus’ head experimentally. “May I?” Charles murmurs, and Magnus looks up at him, raising his eyebrows and quirking up the corner of his lips. Permission. So Charles allows himself to take a fistful of curls in his hand, which earns him another small hum from Magnus.

Charles is bracing himself on his other arm, his chin tucked into his chest. He tightens his grip in Magnus’ hair, feeling the slight grease of his scalp and the dry curls that catch under his nails. Magnus tilts his head obligingly then and pulls back to say, voice rough and half-laugh, “You can yank. I won’t take it personally.”

So Charles does, and not gently, and he’s rewarded with a sharp breath from Magnus. He pulls Magnus’ head up slightly, taking a larger handful and tugs again. Magnus flashes his teeth in a feral, challenging snarl, something like delight sparking in his eyes, and then he’s rising and looming over Charles, who loses his grip on Magnus’ hair as he moves, and Magnus pushes him down so his back is flat on the mattress.

 _Oh. He did take it personally,_ Charles thinks, and then Magnus is bearing down on Charles again. His hands grip Charles’ wrists and pin them to the bed, his mouth harsh and hot as he presses it to Charles’. The taste of Magnus’ tongue in his mouth is the salt-skin mixture of pre-cum and musk and cigarettes and spit, and it’s, in combination, arousing and revolting.

Magnus gives the wound on Charles’ lip another hard nip and Charles can’t tell if it’s on purpose or if Magnus has forgotten, but the reopened cut leaks a coppery tang of blood that layers over everything else. Magnus either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, because he’s still pressing forward, his weight on Charles, the mattress dipping under them. His hair falls over them both, obscuring Charles’ line of sight. His vision is filled with Magnus’ face. Magnus’ eyes are closed and it’s strangely intimate, like seeing a wolf expose its belly. Magnus knows how to use his gaze to great effect and to be free of it, even for a moment, makes the tension in Charles’ shoulders release slightly.

Magnus pulls back then and his lower lip has a smudge of red on it that sends another jolt through Charles. He regards Charles for a moment, and then bites his lower lip and lets the corner of his mouth curl into a faint smirk.

“Sorry. Got a little carried away there. But, I mean, look at you. You look _adorable_ with your face all flushed like that.”

Still hovering over Charles, their faces mere feet apart, he releases his grip on Charles’ wrists to rub his jaw. “Kinda want to try something else, though. I can’t get off just from suckin’ you off, you know,” he says.

He pulls back from Charles, letting go of his other wrist, and rests a hand questioningly on Charles’ hip.

“You ever been fucked, chief?”

And there it is. He _has_ , but that’s none of Magnus’ business, and he’s certainly not about to let Magnus have the satisfaction of knowing either way. And he trusts Magnus’ dick about as far as he can throw the whole man attached to it, which is… well, he knows some judo throws, but Magnus is a pretty big guy.

Charles frowns, and Magnus laughs. “Too personal?”

“I’m not, ah, interested in that,” Charles says, and Magnus grins.

“Doesn’t answer my question,” Magnus says and rests a hand on Charles’ knee.

“No penetration.”

“Sure, buddy,” Magnus says. “Lemme try something.”

“Try what?” Charles narrows his eyes.

“You’ll like it. Trust me,” he says, and before Charles can protest, he hooks his elbows under Charles’ knees to push his legs up and apart. The force and suddenness of it draws a small gasp out of him.

Magnus spreads Charles’ thighs and leans forward to press their erections together. Grinning down at Charles, Magnus settles one of Charles’ ankles on his shoulder, then spits into his own palm and wraps his hand around both of them. He gives a few rough strokes and then swipes his thumb across Charles’ slit, smearing the beaded pre-cum along the head.

Charles feels his breath catch in his chest and the heat creeping along his cheeks, and he angles his hips slightly to buck into Magnus’ hand.

“What’d I tell you, Chuck? Told you you’d like it.” He gives another firm stroke. Magnus’ hand is warm and slick and the pads of his fingers are lightly calloused from his guitar playing. All of it combines to create an intense sensation Charles can’t get from his own hand.

Magnus thrusts into his hand and the friction against Charles’ dick makes him arch into the heat and the pressure. He screws his eyes shut and tries to focus entirely on the feeling of it, and he’s aware of the tightening in his lower belly that means he’s nearing orgasm.

“Close,” he breathes out, eyes still closed, and he hears Magnus let out a soft hum of acknowledgement. Magnus gives one more firm stroke and then Charles feels him pull his hand and his hips away.

Charles opens his eyes to Magnus leering down at him. He’s licking a smudge of pre-cum off of one of his fingers. He gives Charles’ calf a hard squeeze with his other hand and then slides Charles’ legs off his shoulders and stands at his full height. He stretches, arms over his head, and gives a pleased groan. The arch of his back makes his cock even more prominent.

“So, back to my previous question.”

“The answer is still no,” Charles says, but his voice sounds flimsy to him, trying as he is to regain his composure after being so close. Magnus is doing this on purpose, he thinks, trying to cloud his decision-making with lust and get him to agree to more than he wants to.

“You’re playin’ shy after how hot and bothered you were all evening at dinner? You’re telling me you _don’t_ want this?”

Charles purses his lips. He’s not going to be drawn into this debate.

“Look,” Magnus says, and drags a hand through his curls. “If you don’t want this, then fuckin’ say so. This clammed up thing is a turn off.”

“I—no penetration. The rest, ah, is fine. But that’s my hard line.”

Magnus raises a brow. “Fine, fine. I can respect that. Sure.” He leans in closer to Charles and settles a hand on Charles’ thigh. “But I don’t wanna just suck you off, and you’re not exactly bein’ forward with _my_ dick, so let me at least do something,” Magnus says. “I won’t try anything funny. Promise.” He smiles solicitously at Charles as he says this and runs his hand up the inside of Charles’ thigh.

“Intercrural. You know what that is, yeah? Big-shot lawyer like you probably knows all sorts of fancy words. And you went to Harvard, didn’t you? Probably know all about the ‘Ivy League Rub.’” He snorts, the soft breath glancing against Charles’ cheek.

Charles swallows. He does know.

“Well?” Magnus reaches down and cups Charles’ balls in his hand. “Whaddaya say? Sound like a fair compromise?”

“That… that sounds fine.” Magnus gives a light squeeze.

“‘Fine,’” he says with mild derision. “If I’ve got anything to say about it, it’s gonna be more than _fine_.” 

“Up,” he says, and Charles lifts his legs. The shifting makes the tension in his gut more pronounced, and he feels a faint shiver of anticipation.

Magnus holds Charles’ ankles firmly in one hand, maneuvering them so that Charles’ ankles are resting on his shoulder. With his other hand he guides his cock into the space between Charles’ thighs. Magnus gives one experimental thrust, and then another, and frowns. The spit and precum have mixed into something that helps ease the friction, but it’s not quite enough. Charles can feel the slight pull of skin against skin.

“Fuck,” Magnus says, and backs out from under Charles’ legs. “Little too dry, huh? But don’t you worry, Chuck, I’ve got just the thing.” He gives Charles a rakish smile and turns to dig around in his pants pocket. He comes up with a tiny metal container that looks like a chewing tobacco tin, and Charles squints at it. Magnus unscrews the top to show him: it’s full of a white, semi-solid substance that Charles doesn’t quite recognize. “Coconut oil. For my hair,” Magnus says with a grin. “An ex turned me on to it. But it also comes in handy for… other things.”

The oil is slightly melted from Magnus’ body heat, but he scoops out a firmer chunk and rubs it between his palms before pressing his hands to the insides of each of Charles’ thighs. “There. That’ll work,” he says, and then gives his cock another stroke. The oil makes it glisten slightly in the dim hotel room light and Charles swallows. It really is… quite large.

Magnus leans forward then and grasps Charles’ cock in his hands, giving it a firm stroke, and, fuck, he’s right. The oil _does_ feel nice. Magnus slings Charles’ ankles back over his shoulder and positions himself again.

This time, the tip of Magnus’ cock glides easily between Charles’ thighs. “A li’l tighter there, buddy,” Magnus says, and his voice is already hitched and breathy. Charles obliges, pressing his legs closer together, and Magnus lets out a small groan. “That’s good. Like that, yeah.”

Magnus thrusts, and he grunts softly with the effort of it, supporting Charles’ legs on his shoulder and balancing himself against the edge of the bed. He’s still got that stare, and Charles wonders what he must look like to Magnus, glasses askew and hair rumpled, sweat beading on his forehead, the fluttery rise and fall of his chest.

He can feel his palms rasping against the sheets. Magnus’ weight on him is leveraged in his standing position to surprising effect against the back of Charles’ thighs. He can feel Magnus’ body hair tickling against his legs and ass, and all of this is more physical contact than he’s had in months. Magnus isn’t gentle either, rough thrusts that make Charles’ hips ache and the bedframe creak under the force.

But there’s something to be said for that mix of pain and pleasure, and Charles has never been one for explicit sadomasochism, but he can appreciate that people could find their pleasure there. A nerve ending is a nerve ending, after all, and all stimulation is an electrical impulse traveling up to the brain.

Magnus gives a particularly aggressive thrust then, as though he can tell Charles’ attention is wandering. “You just gonna lie there like a dead fish, buddy?”

Charles swallows. “Just, ah… appreciating the sensations.”

“How about you appreciate them a little more physically?” Magnus suggests, and grins. “Touch yourself,” he says firmly, and punctuates it with a sharp thrust.

Charles’ cock strains in his palm as he grips it, and he looks up at Magnus, whose gaze bores into him. Charles thinks then of a video he’d seen of a lion stalking its prey: terrifying, but impressive. And beautiful, in the horrifying way that nature could be.

“Gorgeous,” Magnus breathes, and the compliment makes something in Charles’ chest swell. This feeling, of being appreciated, of being wanted, is doing far more for him, and to him, than he’d expected. Magnus lets go of one of Charles’ ankles to reach down and wrap his big, warm hand around Charles’ own, guiding his strokes, squeezing and rubbing the head of Charles’ cock until Charles’ legs start slipping from his shoulders. Magnus reaches back up to grip them again.

In the interim, his thrusts have become slower and less aggressive, but now he ramps up again, and Charles thinks, briefly, that Magnus’ bony knees might leave some sort of bruise on the back of his thighs.

Charles can feel the tension in his inner thighs, and the warmth pooling now in his lower gut, but it’s still not _enough_.

Magnus turns his head to kiss the bony knob of Charles’ ankle, still thrusting between Charles’ thighs, and then he rakes his nails down Charles’ calf. The sharpness of it sends a jolt thorugh Charles’ body that goes right to his cock. Never mind Magnus’ _teeth_ being artificically sharpened—those claws could do some real damage.

As his climax comes, he finds himself focusing on a dozen different details: the roughness of Magnus’ hands on his ankles, the brushing of Magnus’ hair against the soles of his feet, the desperate, quivering pleasure low in his gut that each thrust gives him, and the sudden quickening of his pulse in response to the sting of Magnus’ nails on his leg.

The mess splatters on his chest and belly, and Magnus’ eyes widen with delight. “Fuck!” he says with relish. “Look at you! Was it the nails that did it?” He drags them along Charles’ leg again, lighter this time, and they catch slightly on Charles’ leg hair. Charles twitches slightly, raising his head to meet Magnus’ gaze.

“You like pain, huh?” The pitch and tone of Magnus’ voice are that of someone who’s won an uncontestable victory, gloating and prideful, and then Magnus says, wondrously, “I’m gonna remember that for next time.”

Magnus lets Charles’ legs drop from his shoulder and pushes Charles’ knees apart to stand between them before he resumes stroking his own cock in earnest, and Charles realizes Magnus intends to add his own fluids to the mess on his belly. Charles lets his head fall back against the mattress. The sooner this is over, the sooner he can clean himself up and work past what he’d once heard Pickles dub “the post-nut regret.”

 _Next time_ is not something Charles wants to think about. That Magnus thinks this could ever happen again is testament to just how wrong Charles has let this night go, how irresponsible and unclear he’d been in telegraphing his intentions. And as Magnus stands over him mumbling dirty talk that Charles has tuned out, Charles decides then and there that this is never going to happen again.

“Hey,” Magnus says, his voice commanding. He presses his hand onto Charles’ shoulder to jolt him out of his own head.

“I want you to _look_ at me,” he says, his voice a low growl, and Charles does, locking eyes with Magnus with what he hopes is a similar intensity. Magnus doesn’t falter under Charles’ gaze, his face twisted into a feral leer, and he gives one, two erratic thrusts into his hand and then he’s coming, white ropes splashing onto Charles’ chest and stomach.

They stay like that for a moment, Charles still matching Magnus’ stare with his own, and then Magnus pulls back with a satisfied exhalation, the snarly sneer replaced with the slightly stupefied look Charles recognizes from other men, a look of satisfaction and ease that Charles himself has never been able to achieve, as though all the tension had dissipated from every muscle.

“Goddamn, _look_ at you, Chuck. God, I wish I had my fucking camera.”

A trophy, Charles thinks. All this was to Magnus was a conquest. Charles frowns at him, and Magnus’ grin falters, if only for a second.

Magnus turns away, heading for the bathroom, and his steps are uncannily silent without his boots. Charles hears running water and Magnus humming something to himself over the splashing. He casts around for a box of tissues or something he can use to wipe up the cooling, congealing mess on his abdomen, but the kleenex box is across the room and Charles isn’t sure he’d relish the idea of feeling it running down his belly to drip onto the carpet.

“Magnus,” he calls, and grimaces at the faint quaver he can hear in his voice.

The water shuts off. “Be right there, Chuck,” Magnus says, his tone conciliatory and easy, and Charles lays there, trying to steady his breathing.

Magnus has a damp washcloth in his hand, as though he’d read Charles’ mind, and before Charles can reach for it, Magnus settles next to him on the bed. The washcloth is warm from the water and Magnus’ hand, and he swipes it along Charles’ chest and stomach, the rough texture tugging at Charles’ skin. The areas he wipes are left slightly red from the warmth and pressure.

When Magnus is finished, he drops the cloth to the floor and Charles wrinkles his nose.

“You have fun?” Magnus asks, though Charles suspects he’s not asking out of actual concern.

“I—”

“I’ve been told I’m an okay lay,” Magnus says with a sarcastic, self-deprecating snicker.

“It was… ah, it was—”

“If you say ‘fine,’ Chuck, I swear…”

“No. No, it was—it was good.”

Magnus scoffs, reaching for his discarded pants and digging a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket. He lights one wordlessly, pulling the smoke into his lungs and holding it there before exhaling out of the corner of his mouth. His eyes are strangely soft as he looks sidelong at Charles.

“Dead fish doesn’t do it for most people, y’know. You’re lucky I’m flexible.” He takes another drag from his cigarette.

“I—”

“I’m just fuckin’ with you. You did good. Still wish I coulda gotten a photo of you all messed up like that.” The toothy grin is back, and Charles can feel his pulse somewhere in his gut, a primordial mixture of fear and lingering desire. Magnus stubs his cigarette out in the ashtray after two more pulls and stretches again, cracking his back with a satisfied groan.

“You mind if I stick around? Want to get at least a few z’s before I head out.”

The clock on the bedside table reads 2:27 AM.

Charles excuses himself as best he can, and as he heads for the bathroom he can hear the bedsprings creak as Magnus reclines, then the shuffle of blankets being pulled back, and then silence.

He closes the bathroom door behind him. The stained, off-white tile and the yellow-tinged fluorescent lights combine to make him look washed-out in the mirror, the beginnings of dark circles and fine lines around his eyes enhanced by the wretched gloom of the place.

He doesn’t know if the effect is in part the exhaustion (it’s way past his bedtime, he thinks wryly) or the alcohol or just the room itself. What he does know is that he needs to get out of here, and preferably without drawing too much attention to his departure.

Magnus wants to sleep. That’s fine. It’s as good a cover as any for slipping out. He can call a taxi, or have the bored-looking girl at the front desk do it for him, but the idea of leaving Magnus unattended in a room that he’s put on his credit card doesn’t really appeal to him. He’s seen the state of the hotel rooms Dethklok has vacated after parties. Sure, there’s a reduced risk with just one of them, but Charles also knows Magnus has a knife with a wicked blade and very little hesitation about using it.

But the idea of staying the night makes something in Charles curl defensively. This was a mistake, and it won’t do to drag it out any longer than he already has.

There’s a toothbrush on the bathroom counter, sterile and wrapped in plastic, and a tiny tube of toothpaste alongside it. Charles brushes his teeth as he deliberates, washing out the stale flavors of dinner and drinks and the musky aftertaste of Magnus’ mouth.

He runs the water, splashing his face lightly to try and wake himself up. There are a few dark hickeys scattered across his chest. He finds one on his clavicle, and another approximately two centimeters to the right of his left nipple. He presses a finger into it carefully. It blanches under the pressure, and when he removes his finger, the capillaries refill within an appropriate number of seconds. No worries about dehydration then, even after a night of drinking. Charles fills the complimentary coffee mug with tap water and drinks it all anyways.

He heads back out into the room. The light is still on in there, and Magnus’ face is turned towards Charles, cheek smushed against the pillow, his eyes shut, and his breathing deep and steady.

He’s asleep, Charles thinks, and he pads carefully over to the crumpled pile of discarded clothing. He retrieves his slacks and shirt, the suit jacket conveniently in its own little pile a few feet away, but as he bends towards it, the belt buckle on his pants clatters. When Charles turns to Magnus to see if it’s awoken him, there’s a single sleepy eye watching him.

“Headin’ out?” Magnus mumbles.

“I, ah, was just getting my things.”

Magnus shifts slightly, raising his head from the pillow and propping himself up on his elbows. He regards Charles without a word, brown eyes boring into him, measuring him, assessing him. Whatever judgment he comes to, Charles can’t make it out in the dim light.

The corner of Magnus’ lips quirk upwards. “Gonna ditch me?” he says, the dryness in his voice ineffective at concealing a small measure of hurt.

“Ah,” Charles says, and then runs out of things to say. 

“I’m not gonna beg you to stay,” Magnus says. “But it’s late. By your standards, that is,” he says, and gives a throaty chuckle. “By the time you get a taxi and get back to your place, it’s gonna be, what?” Magnus glances to the digital clock on the nightstand, which now reads 2:53 AM. “Three forty-five? Four?”

“Yes,” Charles says after a pause.

“So stay here. There’s plenty of room, and I won’t get all handsy with you, if you hated it that much,” Magnus says, and pushes some hair out of his face.

Charles doesn’t move, his clothes still clutched in his hands.

“Whatever. Your decision. I’m going to sleep,” Magnus grunts out finally and he settles back onto the pillow. He turns, pointedly, away from Charles. The tattoo on Magnus’ bicep is visible then, a cobra, wrapped around the entire circumference, eyes red and hood flared in preemptive attack. The way it’s coiled, though, it looks like it’s ready to attack its own tail—a murderous sort of Ouroboros.

Charles looks down at his clothes. They’re wrinkled, and they smell faintly of cigarette smoke, and there’s no way the walk of shame he’ll be taking down to the taxi in the morning will be worth it, but Magnus is also, unfortunately, correct. He can feel the exhaustion digging its claws into him, tugging him invisibly towards the bed. The hassle of getting dressed, going downstairs, calling for a taxi, and then the ride home all feel like more effort than they’re worth.

He folds his clothes, carefully trying to smooth out a few wrinkles where he can, and settles them on the desk on the other side of the room, then clicks off the light. He doesn’t know if Magnus is watching him, but when Charles lifts the corner of the blanket on the other side of the bed to slide in next to Magnus, Charles hears him give a pleased chuff of air.

“G’night, Chuck,” Magnus mumbles. True to his word, he leaves a respectful distance between them, though it’s not much given his considerable size. Charles feels the woozy haze of sleep start to envelop him; the gentle give of the mattress and the heat radiating softly off of Magnus next to him combine to create a comforting sensation Charles doesn’t recall having had in months: the warmth of another body next to his, the safety of having another person sharing your space.

He’s finally allowing himself to settle into it when a movement from Magnus’ side jolts him awake. He doesn’t open his eyes and keeps his breathing steady, prepared for whatever Magnus might do. He hears a sleepy murmur, and then there’s a weight pressing on him under the covers, a hand tucking lightly against his stomach, and Charles tries not to shiver at the contact. Magnus is a cuddler. (That’s another fact Charles will keep in his memory bank, even long after Magnus has departed, eye blackened and cornea filmy, knife in his hand and venom in his heart.) It’s too nice for what it is, which is the culmination of several hours of bad decisions, too much alcohol, and not enough common sense.

Things have gone far enough.

Once Charles is confident that Magnus is asleep—he times the intervals between breaths, shifts slightly to gauge a reaction, and coughs, once, softly, to see if Magnus stirs—he slips out from underneath the warm weight of Magnus’ arm.

He retrieves his folded clothes and assesses them before dressing. The wrinkles are still quite prominent. There’s a small iron in the closet, but he doesn’t want to risk waking Magnus, so he lays them out on the bathroom counter and presses the wrinkles out as best he can by hand. The stationary pad he finds in the desk drawer has only one sheet left on it. He brings it to the bathroom so he can utilize the jaundiced light, considering his words for a moment before he takes up the pen.

_Please remember the meeting with Crystal Mountain at noon. Checkout is at eleven. In case you sleep past nine, I have a courtesy call set for 9:30. There is a fresh toothbrush for you by the sink. Please return the two keycards when you leave._

He sets the note and the keycards on the bedside table next to Magnus’ sleeping form, and latches the door carefully behind him.

******

Three days after their last meeting, Magnus is back in his office, a towering, horrible presence, and he doesn’t bother to greet Charles as he storms in. He doesn’t even pretend that he’s there for anything else. He’s got the crumpled note clenched in his fist, the corner stained a pale brown, and he smells strongly of liquor.

“What the _fuck_ , Charles?”

Charles’ mouth is a thin, pressed line and every muscle in his body buzzes with tension. _You should have expected this_ , he tells himself, but it doesn’t make it any easier.

“I think I made it, ah, quite clear. In the note.”

“That’s a _shit_ _move_ , y’know. You’ve been this sanctimonious, frigid _asshole_ this whole time and you couldn’t even what? Turn me down to my _face_?”

Charles doesn’t move from behind his desk. His hands are clasped in front of him.

“Gonna go cold fish again? Can’t use your big, fancy lawyer words to weasel your way out of this one, can ya?

“And what was that shit with leavin’ me at the hotel by myself? Just sneak out while I was sleeping! That walk of shame must’ve been real fun for _you_. I mean, I had a _great_ time! Chick at the counter all ‘you’re not the guy who checked in’ and then watching her fuckin’ face as she did the math, y’know, one bed, two guys!”

Even now Charles recognizes the letter for what it is: an act of emotional decreation, an inverse reaction to an aggressive push and pull that he’d been unable to reciprocate properly. Cruel, perhaps, but necessary. Magnus will adjust, and then some other pretty young thing will catch his attention, and everything will be forgotten, or if not forgotten, dismissed, as a one-off fluke.

Charles will, too.

“And you still can’t even say anything. Fuck you, buddy. Sincerely. Fuck you.”

Magnus slams the door as he leaves, making the frosted glass pane rattle in its frame.

Charles picks up the letter from his desk. The center crease has the soft, flaky texture of paper that’s been folded and refolded several times.

 _I apologize for my unprofessional behavior after the signing dinner. This cannot, and will not, happen again,_ it says.

He has not signed his name.

**Author's Note:**

> Feeshies drew some [absolutely incredible art](https://fishklok.tumblr.com/post/636429728584220672/gluku-pikrons-fic-owns-my-soul-and-it-will) and I still regularly clutch my heart and wheeze softly with joy over it. 
> 
> if you read this far, thank you. 🙇 and if you enjoyed this, please look forward to the sequel, "magnus gets his wisdom teeth out and charles has to babysit him" that's currently sitting in my drafts. it's quite a bit sillier, so if you're hoping for some levity in your charles/magnus, i might be able to provide.
> 
> comments and kudos are, as always, deeply appreciated. (and if you didn't enjoy this and you feel i wasted your time, i'm open to that criticism too. you can yell at me here or at [gluku-pikron](https://gluku-pikron.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.)


End file.
